Captive in the Millionaire’s Castle

by Lee Wilkinson

  Telling herself that if it did prove to be a mistake, it was only for a month, she said, ‘Thank you. I—I accept.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. Now the only thing is, how soon can you start?’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘Then let’s say immediately.’

  ‘You mean Monday?’

  Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, he told her, ‘I mean now.’

  Sounding a little startled, she echoed, ‘Now?’

  ‘As I told you, when I begin a new book I prefer to leave London and work in comparative isolation. I was planning to go today. Seeing that you’re free to start at once, it would be more convenient if you travelled with me.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘If my chauffeur takes you home, how long will you need to get organized and pack enough clothes for…shall we say…up to a month? Then we’ll both be free to reassess the situation.’

  ‘Half an hour at the most.’

  ‘Excellent.

  ‘By the time you get down to the lobby, the car will be outside, waiting. The car will drop you home and when you’ve had time to pack, I’ll pick you up myself.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Feeling as though she had been caught up and swept along by a tidal wave, she got to her feet and prepared to leave.

  Wondering if he’d done the right thing, or if he’d allowed his subconscious feelings to hurry him into something he might regret, Michael rose to accompany her. If he found he had made a mistake he could always pay her for the month but get rid of her straight away.

  Once again picking up the vibes, and not altogether at ease, Jenny headed for the door. Though at five feet seven inches she was tall for a woman, he was a good head taller, with a mature width of shoulder, and for once in her life she felt dwarfed, towered over.

  As he opened the door the butler appeared as if by magic to escort her to the lift.

  ‘I’ll call for you in approximately an hour, depending on the traffic,’ her new boss reminded her.

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ she promised.

  She had moved to join the manservant when a thought struck her, and, turning to Michael Denver, she began, ‘Oh, by the way, where are we—?’

  At the same instant the phone on his desk rang, and with a murmured, ‘Excuse me,’ he turned to answer it.

  Oh, well, Jenny thought resignedly, she could find out exactly where they were going when he came to pick her up.

  The Saturday morning traffic proved to be relatively light, and the drive back to her Bayswater flat was over quite quickly.

  As good as her word, some half an hour after the chauffeur had dropped her Jenny’s case was neatly packed with easy-care, mix-and-match stuff, and she was ready and waiting.

  Smiling to herself, thinking of her flatmate’s excitement when she read it, Jenny began to scrawl a hasty note.

  Got the job, subject to a month’s trial period. Will be starting immediately. Being whisked off to what I presume is his house in the country to begin work on his latest book.

  Will be in touch. Jenny.

  PS. The man himself is nothing like either of us pictured. He’s quite young and not bad-looking, but rather cold and unapproachable, so he might not be pleasant to work for.

  She had just finished writing when, glancing out of the window, she saw a large black four-wheel drive with tinted windows draw up by the kerb. It seemed somewhat out of place in London, but no doubt it would have its uses in the country.

  Picking up her case and shoulder bag, her coat over her arm, she brushed aside the niggling doubt that she was doing the right thing, and hurried out.

  The air was still cold, but the sun was now shining brightly from a clear, duck-egg-blue sky, and reflecting in the car’s gleaming paintwork.

  As she walked across the pavement Michael Denver opened the car door and jumped out, and she felt the same strange impact she’d felt on first seeing him.

  ‘Good timing,’ he congratulated her as he came round to take her case, before opening the car door.

  By the time she had climbed in and fastened her seat belt he had stowed her case and was sliding behind the wheel once more.

  While he skilfully threaded his way through the traffic, she stayed silent and tried to relax, but she was very conscious of him and could only manage, at the most, an appearance of tranquillity.

  It wasn’t until they had reached the suburbs and were heading out of London that she broached the question that had been at the back of her mind. ‘By the way, Mr Denver—’

  ‘I’d prefer to be on first-name terms,’ he broke in coolly, ‘if that’s all right with you?’

  She had expected him to retain the formality of surnames, at least for the time being, and, startled, she answered, ‘Oh, yes… Quite all right…’

  ‘Michael,’ he prompted.

  It seemed somehow momentous to be using his given name, and it took a second or two to pluck up enough courage to say, ‘Michael.’

  ‘And you’re Jennifer?’

  ‘Yes. But I usually get called Jenny.’

  ‘Then Jenny it is. A nice old-fashioned name of Celtic origin,’ he added. ‘Now, you were about to ask me something?’

  ‘Oh, yes… I still don’t know where we’re going. I presume you have a house somewhere in the country?’

  ‘Yes, it’s called Slinterwood.’ His tone of voice holding an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite pin down, he added with apparent casualness, ‘You know the Island of Mirren?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice held a little quiver of excitement. ‘It’s just down the coast from where my great-grandmother used to live.’

  ‘Have you ever visited it?’

  ‘I went once.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘I was eighteen at the time. It was a short while before I moved to London.’

  ‘You went to see Mirren Castle?’

  ‘Yes. In those days it was open to the public at certain times.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘I didn’t see a great deal,’ she admitted. ‘I’d gone on the spur of the moment, quite late one afternoon, and I’d chosen the wrong day, which meant I couldn’t go inside.

  ‘But what I did see of the place was absolutely wonderful and I’ve never forgotten it. I had hoped to go back one day and see more of it.’

  ‘And did you?’ he pressed.

  She shook her head. ‘Things change, and by the time I had a chance it was too late. I heard that Mirren’s new owner had closed the castle to the public and made it clear that visitors to the island were no longer welcome.’

  ‘So you’ve never been back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, as you say, things change. But there’s nothing to stop them changing again.’

  She was wondering about that rather cryptic remark when he pursued, ‘Did you ever find out who the new owner was?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I believe the island stayed in the hands of the same family. It was just a different policy in force.’

  ‘A policy that caused you great disappointment?’

  ‘Well, yes… Though I can’t say I really blamed the new owner.’

  In answer to her companion’s questioning glance, she admitted, ‘If it was mine, I wouldn’t want visitors tramping around making a noise and dropping litter.’

  When he said nothing, feeling the need to justify that remark, she added, ‘I can’t help but feel that a lot of the island’s charm must lie in its isolation and the serenity that kind of isolation brings.’

  Either her feelings echoed his own, or, he thought cynically, she was clever enough to realize that they were what his feelings would be, and to play up to him.

  ‘Then you’re not a gregarious creature?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Yet you chose to live in London.’

  ‘I don’t dislike London. It’s an exciting, vibrant place to live, and of course it’s where a lot of t
he jobs are.

  ‘But after I’d left Kelsay I found I missed the sound of the sea and the dark night sky and the stars. With the glow from the street lamps it’s not easy to see the stars in central London—’ Suddenly realizing her tongue was running away with her, she broke off abruptly.

  It wasn’t at all like her to talk so freely to a man who was not only a virtual stranger but her new employer, and she wished she had been more circumspect, more restrained.

  When he made no effort to break the ensuing silence, fearing she had already got off on the wrong foot, she apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was babbling. You can’t possibly be interested in my—’

  ‘Oh, but I am,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘And I found your “babbling”, as you call it, quite poetic.’

  Unsure whether or not he was making fun of her, she let that go, and, trying to get back to the more mundane, pursued, ‘I presume from what you said just now that Slinterwood is somewhere near Mirren.’

  ‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He repeated, ‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’

  Still unsure if she had heard correctly, she echoed, ‘On Mirren?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She caught her breath, bowled over by the thought of actually staying on Mirren.

  For as long as she could remember, she had felt a strange affinity with the place, a secret fascination that almost amounted to an obsession.

  She had thought of it as her island.

  It drew her, called to her. Even when she and her parents had been living in Jersey, Mirren had often been in her thoughts.

  Having decided to go back to Kelsay to take care of her great-grandmother, she had made up her mind to ask the old lady—who had lived within sight of the island all her life—to tell her everything she knew about it.

  But on the day before Jenny’s arrival another stroke had left her namesake partially paralyzed and unable to speak coherently.

  Now fate seemed to be offering a chance, not only to learn something about her island, but to live on it for a while.

  She could barely restrain her surprise and delight.

  Giving her a sidelong glance, he commented, ‘You look pleased.’

  Steadying herself, she said, ‘I am rather.’

  ‘And surprised?’

  ‘That too. For one thing, I thought Mirren was still privately owned.’

  ‘It is.’

  So if he rented a house there, even if it was through an agency, he probably knew the name of the family who owned it.

  She waited hopefully, but, when he volunteered no more information, unwilling to appear over-curious in case it stalled the conversation she refrained from asking.

  No doubt she could broach the subject again, when they had got to know each other better.

  Her restraint was rewarded when he went on, ‘You said, “For one thing”… So what was the other?’

  ‘I hadn’t realized there were any buildings on the island, apart from the castle.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So where is Slinterwood, exactly?’

  ‘It stands overlooking the sea, about a mile south of the castle.’

  ‘How strange I never saw it.’

  ‘Not really. I’m half convinced that, like Brigadoon, it’s enchanted, and only appears from time to time…’

  He sounded perfectly serious. But when she glanced sideways at him she saw the corner of his long, mobile mouth twitch.

  ‘Apart from that, until you actually reach it, it’s hidden by a curving bluff and a stand of trees.’

  ‘Is it the only house on the island?’

  ‘No. There’s a couple of farms, and about half a mile down the coast from Slinterwood there’s a small hamlet that was built in the eighteen hundreds to house the estate workers.’

  Seeing her puzzled frown, he went on, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed it—because of the lie of the land it’s only visible from the seaward side.’

  ‘Oh… Do people still live there?’

  ‘Yes. Though the castle itself is no longer inhabited, the estate still needs its workers, most of whom have lived on the island for generations.

  ‘Though, of necessity, the young, unmarried ones leave to look for partners, there’s something about Mirren that seems to draw them back, and keeps the cycle going.’

  He relapsed into silence, leaving her to mull over what she had learnt, which was both thrilling and a little disturbing.

  Thrilling because she would be living on her dream island and working for a famous author. Disturbing because—though Michael Denver had told her from the beginning that he liked to work in ‘comparative isolation’—she was just starting to appreciate exactly how isolated they would be, and to wonder, with the faintest stirring of unease, if she had been wise to come.

  Slinterwood, it appeared, was on the opposite side of the island to the causeway, which meant that once she was there it was a long way back.

  Added to that, the causeway itself, which for part of the time would be under water, was well over a mile long and only safe to cross at low tide and in good weather conditions. So with no transport of her own, she would be a virtual prisoner.

  Oh, don’t be so melodramatic! she scolded herself. All it amounted to was that she and Michael Denver were bound to be thrown together a good deal in relative isolation.

  But so what? A man of his standing was hardly likely to turn into a Jekyll and Hyde, or prove a threat in any way. And though the house was isolated, there must be a housekeeper or a manservant, someone to take care of the place and look after Michael while he was there.

  But would he expect her to provide some companionship for the odd times he wasn’t working?

  It was a bit of a daunting prospect.

  Though with his reputed aversion to women, he would hopefully prefer to spend his leisure time alone.

  If by any chance he didn’t… Well, she had taken on the job, and if providing some companionship while he was at Slinterwood proved to be a part of it she would just have to cope.

  After all, she was getting very well paid. And if, at the end of a month, she wasn’t happy with her duties, she could always say so and let someone else have the post.

  Her thoughts busy, for the past few miles Jenny had been staring blindly into space, but now, her immediate concerns shelved, she was able to give her attention to the scenery.

  They were travelling through pleasant rolling countryside where, in the shade, the grass was still stiff and white with frost, and the skeletal trees stood out black and stark against the pale blue of the sky.

  Topping a rise, they ran into a small sunlit village with old mellow-stone cottages fronting a village green.

  Standing opposite a duckpond, where a gaggle of white geese floated serenely, was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.

  ‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’

  ‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’

  ‘Why not? Pushed for time?’

  She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’

  He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?

  When, his face cool and slightly aloof, he made no comment, she regretted her impulsive admission and wished she had simply said that she was hungry.

  He drove through a stone archway into the cobbled yard of the inn, and, stopping by a stack of old oak beer barrels, came round to open her door.

  Well, whatever faults he might prove to have, she thought as she climbed out, his manners, though quiet and unobtrusive, were flawless.

  With the kind of surety that made her guess he had stopped here before, he escorted her through the oak door at the rear, and into a black-beamed bar where a log fire blazed and crackled cheerfully.

  The bar, its low, latticed windows tendi
ng to keep out the sunshine, would have been gloomy if it hadn’t been for the leaping flames. It was empty apart from a broad-faced, thick-necked, cheerful-looking man behind the bar, and two old cronies in the far corner who appeared to be regulars.

  The landlord’s hearty greeting proved Jenny’s supposition to be correct.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Denver.’

  ‘Nice to see you, Amos.’

  ‘Me and the wife have been wondering if, the next time you came, Mrs Denver might be with you?’

  Jenny saw Michael’s jaw tighten, but his voice was still pleasant and level as he asked, ‘And what made you wonder that?’

  ‘Why, the newspaper stories that you and ’er were getting together again. You must have seen them.’

  ‘I never look at the papers,’ Michael told him. ‘Half the stuff they print is suspect, to say the least. It pays not to believe a word.’

  Amos grunted his agreement. ‘We might not have done, but it sounded as though it was Mrs Denver herself who had told the reporters.’

  ‘Well, whoever told them, there’s not a word of truth in it,’ Michael said shortly.

  With an unexpected show of tact, Amos changed the subject to ask, ‘So what’s it to be? Your usual?’

  At Michael’s nod he enquired, ‘And what about the young lady?’

  ‘Miss Mansell is my new PA,’ Michael answered the man’s unspoken curiosity.

  Then giving Jenny a questioning glance, he asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’

  As she hesitated, wondering what he would consider suitable, he suggested, ‘A glass of wine? Or would you prefer a soft drink?’

  Fancying neither, and having noticed a sign over the bar that announced, ‘We Brew Our Own Ale’, she abandoned the idea of ‘suitable’ and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like half a pint of the home-brewed ale.’

  ‘An excellent choice,’ Amos said heartily. Then to Michael, who had managed to hide his surprise, ‘No doubt you’ve been singing its praises.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ Michael answered gravely. ‘I’m convinced that Miss Mansell can read my mind.’

  ‘Dangerous thing, that,’ the landlord remarked with a grin as he drew two half pints of ale. ‘I’m only pleased my wife can’t read mine. Though, mind you, she makes up for it by reading my letters and going through my pockets…